


Eminent Domain

by manic_intent



Series: Eminent Domain [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, That arranged marriage AU where John gets sort of traded to secure alliances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Abram sighed. “What we want to know is. How are things. With the boy.”The boy. John frowned slightly. He had left The Boy, as Abram liked to refer to him, occupying the living room of the new house, surrounded by textbooks, pointedly ignoring John. “Fine.”“What do you mean ‘fine’?” Abram asked, grimacing. “Do I want to know?”“Abram,” Viggo growled.“He’s still alive?” John wasn’t sure what he was meant to say.Abram paled. “What? What did… John. When the D’Antonio family proposed this… arrangement to us in exchange for permission to act against one of the Camorra affiliated operations in New York, we guaranteed Santino D’Antonio’s continued good health in your hands. He’s what, nineteen? Eighteen? Only a boy.”“He’s not hurt,” John said, even more puzzled now. “Studying for something, I think. We don’t talk.”





	Eminent Domain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bbb136](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbb136/gifts), [santino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/santino/gifts).



> Prompt 4: Marriage AU (Any kind) / 4a: Marriage AU, GoT style rules, John is still with the Russians 
> 
> Haha two people actually asked me for the same thing… Marriage AU… u guys seriously XD;; tbh I don’t really want to write forced marriage (I’m not really much into the institution in the first place). However the (Sicilian and Calabrian) mafia did have dynastic politics, and used to seal alliances etc with marriage, so arranged marriage it is ;3 I guess in this John Wick AU the same will go for the Camorra. The age gap is same as canon.

John stood quietly outside Viggo’s office as the door guard ducked in to announce him. It never took long: this part was a formality, one of many in the Tarasov bratva. The guard stepped out and jerked his head to the door. John didn’t speculate on the night’s mark as he stepped through. Better that way.

To his mild surprise, both Tarasov brothers were in the office. Their alliance had always been uneasy. Abram, the older brother, handed the drug distribution pipelines, while Viggo, the younger, handled everything else. Generally, John had no business with Abram, and Abram clearly preferred it that way: even now, as John came to a respectful stop before the great oak desk, Abram stiffened up nearly imperceptibly. He was by the bookcase, arms folded, while perhaps because his brother was in the room, Viggo wasn’t seated behind the desk, instead standing beside it, hip leaned against the side. John glanced between them and waited. 

Abram cleared his throat, but it was Viggo who spoke first, in Russian. “Good work with Ulic.” 

John had nothing to add to that, so he stayed quiet. The Albanian mafia had tried muscling into one of the Tarasov pipelines and John had been dispatched. Routine wetwork. “Pushed back their territory,” Abram said. “The damage to one of their labs, I suppose it could not be helped.” 

Again John said nothing. That had been an accident, meth labs being notoriously flammable in the first place, and besides, neither of the brothers had ever minded collateral damage before. “So.” Viggo tapped his fingers on the desk, and glanced at his brother. He was unsettled. That was strange. Viggo respected strength, a quality that John understood, but he had never been disconcerted by it. In Viggo there was a greater breadth of steel than there was in Abram. 

Abram sighed. “What we want to know is. How are things. With the boy.” 

The boy. John frowned slightly. He had left The Boy, as Abram liked to refer to him, occupying the living room of the new house, surrounded by textbooks, pointedly ignoring John. “Fine.”

“What do you mean ‘fine’?” Abram asked, grimacing. “Do I want to know?” 

“ _Abram_ ,” Viggo growled. 

“He’s still alive?” John wasn’t sure what he was meant to say. 

Abram paled. “What? What did… John. When the D’Antonio family proposed this… arrangement to us in exchange for permission to act against one of the Camorra affiliated operations in New York, we guaranteed Santino D’Antonio’s continued good health in your hands. He’s what, nineteen? Eighteen? Only a boy.” 

“He’s not hurt,” John said, even more puzzled now. “Studying for something, I think. We don’t talk.”

Abram deflated with visible relief. “Oh, I see. So you meant he’s actually. Doing well.” 

Viggo glowered briefly at his brother. “We were just curious. Since it is an unusual situation for everyone.”

“I _said_ we should have pushed harder for your Iosef to marry Gianna,” Abram muttered. “Even if we had to wait for Iosef to come of age. Massimo was amenable at first. More traditional.” 

“The grandmother intervened, I hear.” 

“Grandmother, pah!” Abram rolled his eyes. “Why would the clan that speaks for the Camorra at the High Table listen to old women?”

“ _We’re_ not High Table,” Viggo said, with studied patience. “They are. Massimo was probably only being polite. Gianna is the heir. If she marries it will be a coin that _she_ decides to spend when she sees fit. As it is,” Viggo added, “I’m surprised that they counter-proposed a match of the spare heir with John. Rather than Iosef.” He looked keenly at John as he said this. “Which is why Abram and I are… curious.” 

“He thinks they’re out to poach you,” Abram said, ever the blunt one. “Did the boy say anything?”

“No.” The wedding had been more like a business settlement. Private, on neutral ground in a stateroom in the Continental in New York. No church. The priest had been Italian. John had stayed quiet through it, watching the exits. Everyone had been tense. Even Winston. Rings had been exchanged. John’s was now in his pocket. He didn’t know what Santino had done with his.

“So how is married life?” Viggo asked, frowning. “It’s been what, nearly a week?”

“Yeah.” John had no real opinion about it so far. Santino tended to be away during the day at university and John tended to be away at night on Tarasov business, a comfortable arrangement that involved minimal contact. “It’s okay.” 

“We appreciate your…” Abram trailed off. “Cooperation. In the matter. I suppose it is not easy.” 

John shrugged. Given the nature of the work that John generally did do for the Tarasovs, marriage so far had been the easiest to date. No one died, no one so far was trying to kill him. Viggo gave him a name. John nodded, leaving the room. Just outside, he could hear the brothers starting to argue. 

Work took up the better of the rest of the night and part of the morning. John returned to the house limping and mildly singed. Santino’s resident security detail let him through the checkpoint, but there were no retainers in the house, John’s only request. He didn’t want to have to deal with being around heavily armed people during his downtime. He took a hot shower and went to bed. Santino had his own room, a couple of doors down. John hadn’t cared. Easier this way. No one to wake up.

#

John woke up with a start to the sound of of a high-pitched pealing. He was out of bed instantly and in a crouch, hand groping for the pistol under his pillow before he realized belatedly that it was the smoke alarm. Yawning, he went downstairs, where Santino was opening a window in the kitchen and cursing in Neapolitan. The toaster was smoking.

Santino turned to move the toaster closer to the window and yelped when he saw John at the foot of the stairs. Belatedly, John remembered that he was still holding the pistol and backed off, leaving it on the glass dining table. The smoke alarm hiccuped mutinously and stopped after a few burbling sounds. There was a knock on the front door. Still yawning, John ambled over to answer it. One of the retainers. He glanced in, curious, then up at John. 

“False alarm,” John said. He waited until the retainer nodded and jogged away back down the driveway before closing the door. 

Back at the kitchen, Santino was fishing out the remains of his breakfast. As John came in, he tensed up briefly. “Did I wake you?” His English was accented. 

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.” The apology was insincere. Santino looked John up and down. “Good night?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You’re hurt.” When John said nothing, Santino gestured. “Limping.” 

“Got hit by a car.” 

“What?” Santino stared. “Shouldn’t you be in a hospital?”

“Not that serious.” Painkillers and sleep and quiet, that was what usually worked. “Everything okay?” 

“Nothing’s burning down. Go back to sleep.” 

“I meant. You okay?” John asked. He wasn’t really sure why he asked. A lingering echo of concern reflected from Abram, maybe. 

Santino bristled. He _was_ young. Nineteen? He looked it. Still pushing into his growth spurt, though he’d never be as tall as John. He was boyishly soft-cheeked, his hair a perpetually thick, unruly mass of curls, mouth plush and soft. He was beautiful the way very few people were beautiful, a beauty that stole the eye, commanding closer study. John had seen its effect on other people firsthand. 

As to John himself… John had once seen a dog look at a painting. Drawn by the energy for a second, then moving on, the painting’s beauty forgotten. The dog had lacked the means to love beauty. Its limited sight, perhaps. The make of its brain. John wasn’t sure what he himself lacked. 

“Why do you ask?” Santino said, icy.

“Checking in. Exams coming up?”

“Assignments.” 

“School today?”

“I don’t have classes on Saturday.”

“Right.” John gave up. “Going back to sleep.” Santino nodded, wary, and John retreated. 

He picked up the pistol and headed back upstairs, wincing as he curled up in bed. When he woke up again it was later in the afternoon. John washed up, changed into fresh clothes, and headed quietly downstairs, hoping he was alone. In the Tarasov safehouse he’d used to live in, he’d have gone for a jog and bought something to eat on his way back. The new house was more secluded. John could drive out, maybe. 

Padding towards the garage, John paused as he passed the living room. Santino was on the couch, legs drawn up to his chest, head tucked against his arm, staring at the tv. It wasn’t switched on. Puzzled, John waited for a moment, but when Santino didn’t move, John said, “Afternoon.”

Santino flinched. He steadied himself against the couch, blinking owlishly at John, then he looked away, flushing. “Afternoon.” 

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“Eaten?”

“Said I’m not hungry.”

“Should probably eat anyway,” John said, though he was a little vague on the matter. Eating had been routine in the Marines, a habit that John had carried with him after discharge. 

“Why do you care?” 

John wasn’t sure how to answer this question. “We’re married?” 

“Please, you haven’t said a word to me all week. Why all the sudden concern?” 

“Tarasovs asked after you.”

“Oh, I see.” Santino turned away, his lip curling, resting his chin back on his arms. “I’m alive. Isn’t that what they want?”

“Something wrong?” Was it going to look threatening if he came closer? Or comforting? John couldn’t really read the signs. 

“Fuck off.”

John sighed. Closer it was. He walked over to the couch, leaning his elbows over the back, if at a respectful distance. “Seriously. Something wrong?”

Santino glared at him, but John stared back until eventually Santino looked away, clenching and unclenching his hands. “It’s a stupid reason,” he muttered. 

“Don’t think so.”

“Oh?” 

“You’re smart.” John nodded at the books and papers over the table, the closed laptop. “Going to college. I never did that.”

“Going to college doesn’t mean that you’re clever. Anyone with money can go to college. My family has money to spare.” Santino eyed him cautiously for a long moment as John waited quietly, then he looked back at the tv, shoulders slumping. “I’m homesick. Happy now?” 

“Oh.” 

“If you’re going to laugh, fuck off.”

“I don’t think it’s funny.” John waited again, but Santino didn’t speak. “Not like you have to stay here. If you don’t want to.”

Santino shook his head. “There’s no point running from consequences.” 

“What consequences?” This was the longest non-business conversation John had ever had with someone, let alone someone outside the bratva. He was all too conscious that he was probably fucking it up. “Tarasovs wondered why you guys asked for me. Rather than Iosef.”

“Iosef?” Santino grimaced. “He’s what, thirteen? And besides. Have you _met_ Iosef? He’s a waste of air.”

Harsh. “Never met him.” 

“Yes, well, you should have seen my sister’s face when your people suggested marrying her to him.” Santino smirked faintly at the memory, though he sobered in the next moment, exhaling.

“Probably more traditional.” 

Santino shuddered. “Probably.”

“So why?” 

“Why you?” At John’s nod, Santino stared at his own hands for a while, curling his fingers into claws, flexing slowly. “I asked for you.”

“Why’d you do that?” John said, mystified. 

“Why did you say yes?” Santino countered. 

“Wasn’t that big of a deal.” Compared to what he usually did for the Tarasovs. 

Santino stiffened. John had said something wrong. “Go away,” he mumbled. 

So much for that. “Ordering pizza. You can have some.” John pushed away from the couch. Santino ignored him. The pizza eventually arrived, chosen from a shop close by. One of the D’Antonio retainers brought the boxes to the door: they probably hadn’t let the delivery guy past the first checkpoint. 

Santino drifted over when John set the boxes on the dining table. He _was_ hungry. John fetched a second plate from the kitchen and came back to Santino opening the boxes, wrinkling his nose. “Pineapple. On pizza.”

“Yes?” John had just picked whatever had been first on the website’s carousel and ordered a couple. 

“Americans destroy everything,” Santino said, though he accepted a plate, perched on a chair, and when served a slice, started picking the pineapple off the top, pulling a face as he did it. 

“So what is pizza meant to be like?” John settled down opposite. 

“Modern pizza was invented in Naples. So Neapolitan pizza is the true version. San Marzano tomatoes, mozzarella di bufala Campana. Thinner crust. Stone oven, oak wood fire.” 

John thought this over dubiously. “Tomatoes and cheese? That’s it?” 

“I’m getting depressed talking to you.”

“That’s Naples. What about the rest of Italy?”

“Of course there are variants everywhere. In Sicily there are variants depending on the region. At least four. In Venice no wood fire ovens are allowed. So their ‘pizza’ is a travesty.” 

“Been to Venice?” 

“Once. My sister wanted to. I’m not interested in repeating the experience. It’s a tourist trap. You?”

“Don’t normally have business in Italy.” Or outside the US. John preferred it that way. 

Santino frowned. “You don’t get time off? From the Tarasovs?” 

“I get downtime.” John gestured at the house. “Now is downtime.”

“That’s. Not the same.” Santino was surprised. “You’re just on call all the time?” 

“I don’t actually work that hard.” Sometimes weeks would pass without the Tarasovs giving him a name. 

Santino laughed, incredulous. “You? Come on. You’re the most famous wetworks specialist in the business. You’re the only thing that the High Table fears.” 

“Killing someone on the High Table? Can’t be done.”

“There’s no rule against it. Only sanctions. And sanctions can be negotiated, especially if the killer belongs to a clan.” Santino shook his head. “There are twelve seats on the High Table. Ever since you excised the Ivankovs from New York single-handedly, you’ve made the High Table uneasy. They think someday the Tarasovs may decide to have a seat vacated in their favour. And use you to do it.”

That sounded like paranoia to John. Viggo was ambitious, sure, more than Abram, but they turned a comfortable profit and were expanding into semi-legitimate businesses. He’d never once mentioned trying to get onto the High Table. It would bring complications, and Viggo was generally allergic to unnecessary complications. “Viggo’s never said anything about that. Or Abram.”

“Not now, but it is the nature of people never to be satisfied.”

John thought this over, eating in silence, watching Santino pick pineapple off into a small pile. Afterwards, while clearing out the boxes, John said, “Is that why you asked for me? Because your family’s afraid of me?” 

Santino had been making himself a cup of coffee. His fingers paused on the machine. “My sister’s not afraid of you.” 

“What about you?”

This made Santino bristle and glare. “I’m not afraid of you. Please.”

“Your father?”

“What is this, a guessing game? Does it matter? You’re just doing what you’re told.”

“You’re not happy here.” 

“Does that matter?”

“Yeah. Why not?” 

“That what the Tarasovs said? Make me happy?” Santino asked, openly skeptical.

“Not what they said. Just. If we’re going to be living together.” John hesitated, a nagging thought still pressed at the back of his mind, now that the Tarasovs had been mentioned again. “You think the Tarasovs will eventually try to take a seat on the Table. The Italians have three seats, everyone else has one. The Tarasovs are already allied with the guys who hold the Russian seat. So you think they’d go for one of the Italian seats. Camorra clans are kinda fractious. Your clan’s seat on the Table isn’t as stable as Cosa Nostra’s or 'Ndràngheta’s.”

“‘Camorra’ is a name that our enemies give us.” Santino turned around anyway, folding his arms. “Yes. It’s a possibility.” 

“You’re worried about your sister? The heir?” 

Something ugly twisted over Santino’s face, and he exhaled. “She can take care of herself.” It wasn’t a real answer. Another deflection.

“She probably should’ve married Iosef. If you guys were really worried about holding your seat.” 

“Iosef isn’t the problem. You are the problem. But I think we may have miscalculated.”

“In what way?” 

“We know why you were dismissed from the Corps. And we don’t agree,” Santino added hastily, when John started to frown. “Dismissing people because of their… preferences.” 

John hadn’t even been bitter about the dismissal. It had been an indiscretion and he had paid for it under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell; besides, he had been thinking about calling it quits from the Corps anyway. Without veteran benefits, things had been rough for a while, but the Tarasovs had taken him in and that had been the end of that. In a way, he’d been lucky. John wasn’t the sort to hold long grudges. Not these sorts of grudges, anyway. He didn’t care enough about that. 

“Hey,” Santino said. He was coming closer, wary. “I’m sorry. If I opened old wounds.”

He was young. Nervous, but it wasn’t because he was afraid. He was genuinely apologetic. John was bemused. “It’s okay.”

“No, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” 

“It was a long time ago.” John said, indifferent. “So why did you think you made a miscalculation?”

Santino stared at him for a long moment, then his next breath left him in a rueful laugh. “My sister always told me that I was arrogant.” 

“How’s that?”

“Come on. We’re married. It’s been nearly a week. You haven’t even tried to kiss me. I can read between the lines.”

“You want me to kiss you?” John hadn’t noticed anything of the sort. Over the week, Santino had mostly just ignored him. 

“Isn’t it customary?” When John merely stared, still unsure, Santino shook his head, exasperated. “ _Maledizione_. Never mind.” 

He stepped back over to the coffee machine, only to freeze as John gently turned him around, leaning over for a quick peck on the mouth. Santino stared at him, shocked. John was about to apologise when Santino grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him down. This was a first for John, kissing someone breathless. Santino rubbed against him and purred as John bracketed him against the edge of the kitchen counter, arms going over John’s shoulders, fingers carding into John’s hair. 

“You taste like pineapple,” Santino complained, when John let up. 

He was grinning. Mischief lit up his eyes, pulled kiss-swollen lips into a gorgeous curl. John bent for another kiss, slower, licking tentatively into Santino’s mouth, against his lips. The dog and the painting. Maybe the dog turned away because it could not imagine a world where a dog could possess a painting. Santino moaned, his knee pressing teasingly against John’s inner thigh. No. The reason was simpler. Dogs might not understand paintings, but they understood bait. John nuzzled Santino’s throat, nipped him under his jaw. He smelled good. Tempting. But that would be too easy.

“Let’s go for a drive,” John said, and caught curious hands as they tried to ruck up his shirt. “With the car.”

Confusion was a pretty look on Santino. “With…? That won’t work. We’ll have to travel in a convoy.” 

“I’ll talk to your security. No one’s going to go after you if I’m there. You’ll be fine.” 

Santino traced John’s shoulder with his fingertips. “What’s wrong with your room?” 

“Nothing. We should get out of the house.” 

“And go where exactly?”

“Get ice cream? Catch a film?” John was vague on the details now that he was confronted with them. What did teenagers like to do? “Go for a walk?”

Santino stared at him, confused again, then he blinked. “You. Want to go on a date.” 

“Kinda. Yeah.”

“Isn’t that unnecessary?”

“Think we skipped a step.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If we’re stuck with each other, I want to get to know you.”

“And you think that’s somehow better achieved by having ice cream,” Santino said, sardonic. “Rather than fucking me into your bed.”

“Yeah.” 

“Don’t tell me. The great John Wick likes sappy romances?” 

“Okay. Forget it.” John started to pull away, but Santino hung on, hands curled into his shoulders, then against his shirt. Santino’s sneer was gone, replaced by wariness. 

“You’re serious.” 

“Yeah?”

“No one’s said that to me before. Wanting to ‘get to know’ me. I thought it was something only people from stupid movies say to each other.” 

“Sometimes stupid movies have a point.” Santino looked away, nibbling on his lower lip, as though disoriented. John kissed his shoulder at the point where the sloping line curved gracefully into his arm. Santino was drawn in elegant lines. 

“People don’t always like what they find on a closer encounter.” 

“Wonder why.” John said, nuzzling Santino’s temple when he stiffened. “We’ll see. Car?”

“Fine.” Santino wrinkled his nose. “Let’s go and see how badly you Americans have managed to ruin gelato.”

#

Santino left for Mass on Sunday and returned with his sister, who stared suspiciously at John and was cordial but distant. John left them hooking up some sort of game console to the tv and went for a jog. He returned to the two of them possibly on the verge of setting fire to the kitchen, switched off the smoke alarm, rescued the oven, and extinguished whatever was on the stove in the sink.

“We ordered take out,” Gianna said afterwards, not even apologetic. “Hope you eat Thai.” She was eight years older than Santino and already handling part of the D’Antonio’s lucrative counterfeiting empire, according to Abram. There was something of Santino in her eyes, but where Santino was soft curls and elegant lines, Gianna was all hard edges, especially her eyes.

“Were you guys trying to cook?” Some pans were never going to be the same again. 

Gianna scowled at him. “Well, what with your ‘no staff’ rule, what else were we supposed to do? I don’t want my brother to live on take out.” 

Oh. “It’s fine,” Santino said, with a glare at his sister. “Most days I’m at uni anyway.”

“You can’t eat out all the time.” Gianna glowered at John. “What’s the problem anyway? This big house is empty without people. Do you want my brother to be lonely?”

“Oh my God,” Santino muttered, and dragged his sister out of the kitchen. John could hear them start to argue in Neapolitan, a dialect he’d never really tried to get the hang of. Had Santino been lonely? John hadn’t noticed that either, but come to think of it… That made sense. 

Quietly, he cleaned up the kitchen and switched the long-suffering smoke alarm back on. By the time Santino came back in, ostensibly to get plates and cutlery, the kitchen looked considerably less like a war zone.

“Sorry about that,” Santino said. “My sister. Is very protective. Bad habit.”

“She _is_ your big sister.”

“Don’t encourage her.” Santino opened cabinets at random until John pulled out the drawer with plates. 

“I don’t have a no staff rule,” John said, as he counted out forks. “You can have staff if you want.” 

Santino paused in the middle of stacking plates on the counter. “You said you didn’t want retainers in the house.”

“I meant security.”

“Why don’t you want security in the house?”

“Kinda prefer to spend my downtime _not_ surrounded by people with guns.” John hesitated. “But if it’ll make you feel better—”

Santino waved dismissively. “You like things quiet.”

“I guess. But if you’re lonely—”

“Please don’t. No. I’m not lonely. God.” 

John couldn’t tell if Santino was lying, but he certainly looked indignant. “Okay.” 

“It took a few days to get used to it. But it’s not so bad. Not having someone check on you all the time. Privacy.” 

“Yeah,” John said. Santino nodded tightly, finding bowls. How much Thai take out had they ordered? “Look. If you want staff. I’m okay with that.” The house was big enough.

This got him a glare. “I didn’t say that I did.” 

John decided not to push, changing tack. “I can cook. All right?” 

“Really?” Santino said, openly disbelieving. 

“Simple stuff. Without burning down the house.” 

“That was an accident. And it was Gianna’s fault.”

“What about that time with the toaster?” John countered. 

“The toaster’s fault,” Santino said, and leaned in to kiss John hard on the mouth when John started to point out that the toaster was perfectly functional. Instinctively, John tugged him closer, only to jerk back when Gianna cleared her throat from the kitchen door. 

“Food’s here,” she said, looking between them both. She rolled her eyes when Santino made a rude gesture, but for some reason she was less glacial at lunch, even tentatively friendly. They didn’t talk business. The siblings spent most of it complaining alternatively about American food and American politics, and afterwards, John cleared up as they spoke quietly in the living room. 

“Did I pass?” John asked later, when Santino came into the kitchen, everything now neatly stacked in the dishwasher. 

“You don’t get off that easily.” Santino grinned, though. 

“She was worried about you.” John paused. “Even the Tarasovs were worried about you.” 

“And should they be worried?” 

John washed his hands in the sink. “I know what I am.” 

“And you’d hurt me, will you? Shoot me some day? If I make you angry?” Santino’s tone was facetious, but the humour wasn’t in his eyes. 

“I’ve seen what I’m like when I’m angry. The kinda person I am when I get that way. Makes me sick.” John dried his hands off. “So I try not to get angry.” 

“But if you do? Someday?”

“At you?” John didn’t want to imagine that. “I take a lot of pissing off.” 

“Hypothetically.”

“If I ever get that angry?” John stared at him evenly. “Find a way to put me down.”

#

Santino avoided him for days. John didn’t blame him. And besides, it did mean not having to exercise his very rudimentary cooking skills. He did a job for the Tarasovs on Wednesday and got called out to drinks on Thursday with Marcus, in one of the grimy, dark bars that Marcus tended to love, where everyone drank seriously and ignored each other, and more importantly, drinks didn’t cost ‘a fucking gold coin, what the fuck’, to quote the ageing fixer.

“So how’s married life?” Marcus asked, once bourbon was served. They were in a corner of the bar, perched on sticky stools. 

“Fine.”

“What do you mean, ‘fine’?”

“The brothers asked the same thing.” John stared at Marcus seriously. “You guys really thought I was going to hurt him?”

“No? Not me anyway. You’re not like that. I think.” Marcus was a grizzled, lean man who had been the Tarasovs' top fixer until John had been brought into the bratva. He still took jobs now and then, but further in between. He didn’t seem to mind semi-retirement.

“Meaning you’re not sure.”

“You’ve got a reputation. You tell me.” 

“I’m not going to hurt him. But I think he realized that marriage was a bad idea.”

Marcus sniffed. “You kidding? I think they got a fucking great deal out of it. The Tarasovs knocking off that clan was good for them as well. The D’Antonios don’t really give a damn about the pipeline Abram picked up. And they got you as part of their ‘apology’. It was a fucking coup.”

“I still work for the Tarasovs.”

“Never heard of asset denial? Bad optics for the Tarasovs to use you against the D’Antonios now. Especially if you ever actually get attached to that kid.” 

“Still think it’s more logical for Gianna to marry Iosef.” 

“Hah! Them? Iosef’s not old enough for that. And even if he was. He wouldn’t survive the wedding night. That girl’s a spitfire.” 

True. “I don’t think the Tarasovs are interested in the High Table.” 

“Not now, maybe. But in the future, who knows.” Marcus stared at his whisky, taking a sip. “By the way, when I asked you how was married life, I don’t actually care about the spoiled brat they stuck you with. I meant you.” 

“You’ve met him before?”

“I hear things.”

“I’m okay.” John said. “It’s not so bad.” 

“At least you’ve got someone pretty to warm your bed. Even if he’s spoiled.” 

“It’s not like that.” At Marcus’ disbelieving stare, John said, “He’s got his own room.”

“Seriously? You’re not even…? God damn. A fucking coup.” 

Santino had stayed up. He was cross-legged before the tv, a game controller in his hand, cursing. He paused when John came in, looking him over. “Job finished early?”

“Wasn’t a job. Went for a drink.” 

“Are you tipsy or worse?”

“Neither.” John didn’t get drunk easily. 

“Good. Come here.” Santino beckoned impatiently until John sat down beside him, stretching out his legs. It was a colourful shooter of some sort, the main character encased in greenish, futuristic armour, with a golden visor over his helmet. Santino fiddled with the controls, then shoved a second controller into John’s hands. The image on the tv split into two panels. 

“Um.” 

“You know how to shoot. This can’t be hard.” Santino stared at him. 

“I know how to shoot with a _gun_ ,” John said. The controller felt tiny in his hands. He moved one of the little thumb sticks. One of the panels shifted, slewing sharply to the side. “Never used one of these before.” 

“What… have you been living under a rock? All right. This to move. This to aim.” Santino’s explanation was impatient. “I just need to get past this area and it’s easier with another player. If you die you’d just respawn.” 

“And… what do you need to do?”

“Just shoot everything that moves. Normal for you, right?” 

John sighed. It took practice just to walk without the point of view skewing wildly and uncomfortably. At one point he blew himself up by pressing the wrong button, something that made Santino laugh. That was a good sound. Anything that was far from fear was good. Santino explained the plot as they went, something that was, in John’s opinion, unnecessarily complicated. Apparently there were humans, aliens, and some sort of alien plague called the Covenant. For some reason, Kenya was under attack. 

“This doesn’t look like Mombasa,” John said, as they navigated the streets. 

“You’ve been?”

“Once. Couple of days.” Job had been quick.

“Why the hell would the bratva send you to Mombasa?”

“I don’t ask questions.” 

Santino glowered at him. “So don’t ask questions about this either. It’s called having a suspension of disbelief, John. Shut up and shoot. My God. Are you even aiming? That’s a pillar.”

They played the game until Santino was yawning and nodding off, then Santino fell asleep, leaning heavily against John’s arm. John watched him for a bit, leaving the game on pause. He didn’t remember the last time someone had extended him this sort of easy trust. Outside of the Corps. It wasn’t an entirely comfortable feeling, somehow: it registered as a dull ache, an echo of an old wound in his chest. He kissed Santino over his curls. “Hey. Time to sleep.”

Santino frowned but didn’t open his eyes. He grumbled as John tried to get him to his feet, curling against John and clutching at his shirt. John lifted him onto the couch and Santino grumbled something again, hooking his heel against John’s hip and tugging until John settled awkwardly against him, knees and elbows everywhere. It was an odd fit. Too warm. Santino dozed off again quickly, his breathing evening out. John could feel his heart beating, slow and steady, pressed over John’s ribs, a visceral shade of intimacy.

#

Things settled in a careful rhythm. John got slightly better at Halo, somewhat better at cooking. Domesticity was weird. “You’re even doing his laundry?” Marcus said, during one Thursday drinks session. He looked appalled.

“After he nearly broke the machine, yeah.” John wasn’t even sure how Santino had managed to do that.

“Good lord. He’s got you good.” 

John didn’t think so. Household chores were small things that he was going to do anyway, and the D’Antonios paid for a housekeeper for most of it. Santino had his moods, but during bad ones John usually just went for a drive. It was a comfortable arrangement, so far. He came home expecting to find Santino on the console or studying, but the living room was dark. Was Santino out? John headed upstairs. 

Santino was curled in John’s bed, asleep, shoulders bare under the sheets. John stared, a little surprised, then he took a shower, changed into sleep clothes, and climbed onto the other side of the bed, which woke Santino up. He glanced at John, dazed from sleep and yawning. “You’re back late.” Sleepy enough to be speaking Italian. 

“Drinks with Marcus.” 

“Later than usual.” 

“He wanted to talk about life.” Sometimes Marcus got maudlin. “Something wrong with your room?” 

Santino stared at him, blinking, then he groaned and rolled over, burying his face in John’s pillow, cursing in Neapolitan for a moment. Then he glowered at John over his shoulder. “You can’t be serious.”

“About what?” John asked. Santino shook his head and shifted over, hands clenched over John’s shoulders, kissing him roughly. He was naked, his cock riding up against John’s hip, and he growled as John tentatively rubbed a palm down over his ass. Slick. Santino smirked at whatever he saw on John’s face. 

“Got bored waiting for you to come home.”

“Kinda unexpected.” John pressed in a finger easily, watched Santino moan and arch against him. It was for show, John knew that, but it was still a good sound. He pressed in another finger. Again, an easy slide. Did Santino open himself up in the shower, or in the bed? Get cleaned up thinking of John? John breathed out unsteadily, hauling Santino up for a kiss. He worked his fingers in to the knuckles, groaning as Santino clenched down over them with a purr. 

“Come on then,” Santino said, impatiently pulling at John’s boxers. 

“Condoms?”

“Drawer.” 

Groping, John found the packets. “You sure about this?” 

Santino rolled his eyes. “I’m naked and your fingers are inside me. Bit late to ask. Yes, I’m fucking sure. What do you want? A printed invitation?”

“Do you really have to be an ass about everything?” John pulled his fingers away to shed his clothes, found lube and tore a condom packet open with his teeth, rolling a rubber onto his cock. Santino didn’t bother to help, working in marks over John’s throat, his shoulders, chest. He grew impatient when John’s cock nudged up against his thigh, breathing shakily when John slicked himself up. 

It was a tight fit. Not even really a fit. Santino shuddered and cursed each time he couldn’t push himself down further and had to wait, fingertips digging into John’s arms. It probably hurt: Santino’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut. “Hey,” John said. His voice sounded like a stranger’s, hoarse and strangled. “Don’t have to push. We can do something else.” 

“Fuck you, shut up.” Santino snapped, and took in a shaky breath. “You’re so big. Feels good.” 

John couldn’t tell whether Santino was lying. _Santino_ felt good, gritty as the fit was; it hurt in a way John didn’t realize he could hurt, an achy breathless breed of pleasure. Almost there. They both moaned when Santino got all the way down. “Damn,” Santino breathed, his back arched, shaky and flushed. Gorgeous. He laughed, a sound far from fear. “Maledizione.” 

“You okay?” 

“Going to be limping tomorrow.” Santino sounded smug. “You better last long enough for me to enjoy this.” 

“Tough call.” John tried to think of base camp, of being partly buried in sand in the Gulf, anything to slow down his heart rate. Didn’t work. The uglier parts of his life felt distant for the first time, shoved aside. 

Santino chuckled, as though he knew. Eventually, when he started to move, John was no closer to self-control. He could only try to hang on, gasping as Santino moved, rocking against him slowly at first, then shifting up to shove his weight back down, grinding them both against the bed. His lips were parted, head bowed. John tried not to watch the flushed length of his cock pushing in and out, but he couldn’t look away. Santino twisted until he found an angle that he liked and clenched his hands tight over John’s arms, making little wounded sounds as John bucked against him, groping for his cock. With a few rough pulls Santino wailed, shoving down, pinning John to the bed with his weight, making a mess. 

“C’mon,” John gasped, hips twitching against him. “Let me move.” Santino ignored him, his breathing evening out, then he grinned, braced above John. Waiting. “ _Santino_.” 

“Breathe,” Santino said, his tongue curling briefly over his lips. “Wait. Give me a few minutes. Then do this again.” 

Oh. _Oh_. John sucked in a breath wired tight on lust, on pain, and rolled them over, taking Santino’s mouth when he laughed.

#

John didn’t like the arcade. Too many sounds, too many people. Security risk. He dragged his heels as Santino pulled him past pinball machines and some sort of dance/torture device thing to the back of the big room. There was a large machine with two screens. No controls, only two plastic guns wired to the centre. “Really?” John said.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never played Time Crisis.” 

“I’ve never been in one of these places.” 

Santino pulled a face. “You _were_ living under a rock all this while. Amazing. Take pink.” 

“The weight’s wrong,” John said, as Santino fed coins into the machine. 

“Stop complaining. Don’t shoot hostages.”

John read the instructions. “That’s how they make you reload?” 

“You suck at Halo, I thought this might be a consolation.” 

John stared, bemused by the logic. “We could go to a shooting range. An actual one. If you want to learn how to use a gun.”

“I know how to use a gun,” Santino growled. The game was starting, and they stood shoulder to shoulder. For a moment the world was shut out, the noise, the garish colours, the crowds. Santino grinned, full of mischief, his ring worn openly now, bright against blue plastic. “Prepare to lose, old man.” 

“You’re on.”

**Author's Note:**

> Refs to Italian prosecution and how the (Sicilian) Mafia used to operate: http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/07/31/how-not-to-solve-the-refugee-crisis?mbid=social_twitter
> 
> John Dickie on the Italian Mafia and sealing the peace with marriage: http://www.salon.com/2012/06/18/john_dickie_on_the_italian_mafia_salpart/ also has a good list of books for further reading on mafia. I’m currently working slowly through Gomorrah.
> 
> Married to the Mob: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/tvandradio/9631385/Married-to-the-Mob-Life-inside-the-American-Mafia.html
> 
> Apparently Camorra clan members actually call themselves ‘the System’, or ’Secondigliano System’ (ref: Saviano’s Gomorrah).  
> \--  
> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


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